


The Reunion

by TinyFakeFanficRock



Series: Ad meliora [9]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Sex, Exhibitionism, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hair Kink, Humiliation, Implied/referenced underage rape, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Slavery, Stalking, Tribal Courier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyFakeFanficRock/pseuds/TinyFakeFanficRock
Summary: There's no chance in this meeting on the Strip, and now the Courier has to show her hand.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Fallout Kink Meme.

The frozen-in-time air of the Lucky 38 was creepy as fuck, but Cass put up with that because it also involved untouched bars with a fine selection of whiskey. She was availing herself of that luxury in the presidential suite's kitchen while Mel cleaned up before what they hoped was her final confrontation with Benny.

It'd been a long, strange trip since the night at the Outpost when Cass had gone out to stretch her legs, saw a courier choosing a few things from Larry's wares, heard her ask, "So how much do I owe you?" and then hastily stepped in to prevent her complete fleecing. If Cass were a nicer person, her first motivation for intervening would have been pity for someone naive enough to say that to a hardened caravaneer, but really she just wanted to wreck Larry's night since she was in a shitty mood and he was an asshole anyway.

The courier had introduced herself as Mel and sheepishly bought Cass a drink as a thank-you, and they chatted a while. Eventually Mel confided that she hated bargaining because she was bad at arithmetic; it just wasn't something her tribe of Bighorner herders in far northern Nevada ever used. "I was learning about plants and how not to get trampled instead. I mean, now I can count it when people pay me in NCR money, and I can add things up if you give me a piece of paper and a little time, but traders go too fast for me. So I figure paying their markup is just part of the cost of doing business."

Cass wondered how someone so unworldly had become a courier, of all things, but when she'd asked, Mel had just waved her hand, given a sad little smile, and said, "Things happen." Over the course of the conversation, Cass gathered that she'd left her tribe on bad terms as a young adult, gotten married and had a baby -- Cass suspected that her tribe had objected to her husband -- and then been the only survivor when her family's house burned down. She'd gotten back on her feet working as a courier, and then been robbed, shot, and left to start over yet again.

It was the kind of life story that made Cass feel pretty lucky, and some combination of that strange feeling and all the whiskey they'd put away convinced her that helping Mel fuck up this fancy city boy who'd dumped her in a grave would be a hell of a lot more fun than propping up the bar at the Outpost. And, well, so far it sure had been. Mel was a magnet for interesting shit, treated people decently, had a dry wit under her seriousness that made her pretty good company, and had the skills and nerve to fillet a still-living Deathclaw with that knife of hers. Not that they'd tried, though. Yet.

"So I talked to Swank," Mel called from her bedroom, interrupting Cass's woolgathering, "and he really needs to stop hitting on me, but at least he's on board. I shouldn't have any problems with the other Chairmen."

Cass took the bottle of whiskey she was working on, pocketed a spare, and crossed the hallway. "Sounds good to me." Mel was standing by the bed in her underthings, brushing her hair. Cass had never seen it loose before. Still crimped from its time wound around her head in her trademark braids, it hung in waves all the way to her ass. "Damn, your hair is long."

"Heh. You should have seen some of the elders in my tribe. We never cut our hair."

"Ever? Wow."

"Well, I cut mine really short once, right after I started out on my own, but it felt so wrong I never did it again." She picked up a hand mirror from the bedside table and held up a hank of her hair experimentally. "Have to decide how to put it up. I'm going for something sexier than my usual, since a little distraction never hurt."

"Well, it's plenty distracting like it is right now. You could probably test it out on Boone. He ever seen your hair down?" Cass seriously doubted it. The two of them had done nothing but warily circle each other for a while now, and frankly she was starting to wish they'd just fuck already and get it over with. Sure, they had one dead spouse each, but life had to go on.

Mel stiffened, and not just because she didn't like her current updo. " _No_." That was significantly more emphatic than usual. Cass had apparently hit a nerve without even trying.

Part of her wanted to say _Jesus, Mel, go get laid, it's been years since the fire,_ but she was pretty sure bringing that up now would be an asshole move. So Cass sighed and didn't say anything while the most asexual person she knew tried to make herself look sexy.

"How's this look?" She'd settled on a hairstyle that left most of her hair loose, corralled back from her face by small braids on either side that met at the back of her head. Simple, but definitely attention-getting.

"I'd fuck you without even getting drunk first. 'Course, I am a little lit up already."

"Thanks, I think." Mel laughed and pulled on a low-cut red silk cocktail dress with a black lace overlay. Cass zipped her up and stepped back to let her arrange her hair to cover the parts of the burn on her shoulder that the straps of her dress, wide as they were, did not.

"You really gonna fuck Benny if he goes for this?" She had trouble picturing Mel in seductress mode, let alone completing the act.

"I'd prefer not to. It's on the table, though." She shrugged. "You use what you have." She looked herself over critically. "I think I'm ready. Let's get you set up."

Mel led Cass to the cocktail lounge, stationed her at one of the plate-glass windows overlooking the Strip, and handed her a pair of binoculars. "I think without his hired Khans he'll try to run, so if he makes it, I want you up here to tell me where he goes. Don't do anything the Securitrons wouldn't like while I'm gone."

Cass chose a chair and settled in. "As long as the Securitrons haven't made a rule against whiskey, I'm fine."

Mel grinned and clapped her on the shoulder. "Don't get so hammered you can't pick out an ugly checkered suit."

"If it's half as ugly as you described it, there ain't enough booze in the world. Now go kill that son of a bitch."


	2. Chapter 2

Ordinarily, Vulpes Inculta was a patient man, well-suited to carrying out Caesar's orders, especially one so simple as _Wait outside The Tops until she's got the chip or Benny runs for it, then give her the Mark and my message and return_. If he hadn't seen her enter the casino, he might have been able to pretend it was any other mission, but ... she was now wearing her hair the way she had when they lived in Flagstaff, and the idea that she might be doing it to seduce that Dissolute popinjay infuriated him. Vulpes was the best of Caesar's men, true, but he was still a man, and he had to fight the urge to march into that casino, throw his woman over his shoulder, and take her somewhere that she couldn't -- wouldn't want to -- run away from. He wouldn't, of course; putting his own desires before Caesar's would be the basest disloyalty, but he was restless all the same, and finding this gap in his unflappability irked him.

He consoled himself with the thought that it was really a stroke of luck that his runaway wife had somehow managed to become the Courier whose exploits had so intrigued his lord: Caesar's amnesty would spare her the death preceded by days of public torture that generally awaited escaped slaves. Then, when she had performed all the tasks Caesar required of her, Vulpes would be able to repossess her without losing face.

He felt a little thrill at the idea of once again being able to treat himself to her lithe bronze body and glorious cascades of black hair -- even after seven years apart, his cock still twitched at the thought of her hair. Her original people had called her Raven because of it, and the name suited her so well that he had simply translated it to the Latin Corva when he made her his wife.

Though Vulpes had initially been unsure a personal slave would be worth the effort, his little bird had proved a most rewarding investment indeed, and not only in bed. She'd only given him one child, a son who'd died in infancy during an outbreak of sweating sickness, but she'd shown her value in other ways. She'd learned Latin quickly and knew how to exploit the invisibility of slaves, bringing him a great deal of information that his comrades might not have supplied to him directly. He'd even been able to use her on a mission once, bringing her with him as he dealt with a tribe whose leader had seven daughters and no trust for unmarried men. He took care to keep her keen mind occupied with a constant stream of books, and as a result she never made trouble for him. The worst he ever got from her was a rare bit of backtalk, and though there'd been one memorable occasion when he'd had to suggest selling her to the former Legate before she remembered her place, usually the back of his hand sufficed to correct her.

That had made it all the more shocking when he'd returned to Flagstaff from an operation near Kingman, looking forward to having her suck him while he threaded his fingers through her hair, and instead found broken furniture, bloodstains, her torn clothes, and the naked, rotting body of his former centurion. It hardly required a man of his skills to reconstruct the events: Gurges, seething not just at Vulpes' continued existence, but also at his success, had decided to strike back by ruining his most precious possession. 

Unfortunately for Gurges, Corva was not nearly as defenseless as most slave women. When Vulpes was still scouting the Ironwood people, he'd watched her bring down a decent-sized gecko with only a little knife. Though Gurges had been bigger than a gecko, he had also been significantly slower. Nimble Corva must have made quick work of him.

Part of him wished he'd been there to see her drive her long hairpin through the centurion's eye, but most of him wished he'd been there to kill Gurges himself and keep the whole thing from happening so that she would still be by his side. Not that he blamed Corva for fleeing: Without him there to speak for her, she'd have been executed once Gurges' death was discovered. Vulpes was impressed that she'd thought to steal the centurion's armor and simply walk out of town once it was dark; it was the sort of move he would have made in such a situation. Yes, Corva was hardy, clever, and beautiful, but most of all, she was _his_ , and he wanted her back.

Everywhere he went in the years afterward, he searched for her, taking stealthy side trips from his assignments to investigate possible sightings. The last he'd heard was nearly five years ago, just before the first assault on Hoover Dam. Ulysses had reported seeing her at the Divide and seemed to believe that she'd died in its destruction, but Vulpes had never been entirely sure how much credence to give that information. The older frumentarius resented him for his role in the assimilation of the Twisted Hairs, so it must have given Ulysses great satisfaction to tell Vulpes that Corva was dead, true or not. Still, he'd almost begun to believe it; all his inquiries since had yielded nothing.

Then Caesar had given him the assignment to investigate this Courier Six woman, Melanie Shepard. They'd met at Nipton, where he'd charged her with conveying his "sermon" to the profligates, but she'd been wearing a hood and sunglasses and holding a cloth to her face against the smoke. Only a week later, from a ridge above HELIOS One, did he see her face unveiled, and even with bullet scars on her brow and her hair in severe braids coiled around her head, he knew: this "Mel" was his Corva.

If she hadn't been surrounded by profligate troopers, he'd have reclaimed her on the spot. When he realized one of them, marked as a sniper by his red beret, was traveling with her, it had taken all of his self-restraint not to do it anyway. He'd shadowed them until they made camp and taken perhaps more risks than he should have to get close enough to hear their conversation. It was all logistics, hardly lovers' talk, which they confirmed by spreading separate bedrolls on opposite sides of the campfire. Vulpes was relieved; he wasn't sure what he'd have done otherwise.

His orders regarding the "Courier" called for surveillance only, but even so, the profligate sniper would have died the moment he touched her -- he was not about to watch his woman be sullied by another man, let alone a dog of the NCR. Corva herself, however, was a more complex matter.

Caesar's interest, obviously, would keep her alive in the short term, but after that was trickier. Vulpes knew it was unlikely she'd remained pure after seven years among the profligates, and that meant he should simply kill her. He hated the thought, though not out of any useless sentimentality: It was simply a shame to discard such a versatile tool. In an ideal world, she would not resist resuming her rightful place beneath him, but Vulpes had seen more than enough dissolution to know that this was not an ideal world. How long, he wondered, might it take to retrain her out of the bad habits she'd surely acquired in the absence of his guidance?

He weighed it in his head only until she stepped out of the casino, when the sight of her, glossy hair spilling over one shoulder and making that whorish dress almost modest, resolved him: Reforming Corva would be a worthy project. _But Caesar's command comes first_ , he told himself firmly, stepping into her path.


	3. Chapter 3

Mel felt profoundly uncomfortable wearing her hair the way _he_ used to love it, but it was apparently effective on other men, too. Benny had eagerly agreed to go upstairs with her, and once they had the suite's door closed behind them, it was no challenge at all to slit his throat with the razor she'd smuggled in while he busied himself with his belt buckle. She pocketed the Platinum Chip and his gun; the latter was all but useless to her, but she could at least bluff with it if Swank didn't have the hold on the other Chairmen he thought he did. On a whim, she also took Benny's jacket from the chair he'd draped it over; after all, this had been a hunt well worthy of a trophy.

She stopped at the front desk on her way out. "He's dead," she informed Swank, "so the place is yours --"

"Well, ring-a-ding, ba--"

"-- on one condition: When you speak to me, forget the words 'doll' and 'baby' exist. Otherwise someone else is getting promoted." She fixed him with the authoritative stare she'd once used on Bighorners.

It seemed to work on Chairmen, too; he dropped his gaze and swallowed hard. "Got it ... ma'am?"

"'Mel' is fine, but that'll do." A half-smile crept over her face as she recovered her weapons from the doorman and walked out into the fresh air, but it was only fleeting: She had a lot to do.

First was to talk to Veronica and Arcade; she wanted someone with a head for technology to have a look at that bizarrely cheerful Securitron Benny had hidden away, and that someone sure as hell wasn't her. 

Second, third, and everything else flew out of her head when one of the men in suits stepped in front of her and said, "Corva," in that unmistakable crisp, chill voice. _Him._

She froze. This was it, then: He had finally found her, and however long she continued breathing, her life was effectively over. She marshaled her courage and looked him full in the face, defying the protocols that had once governed her existence. God, he looked strange without his Legion crimson. Almost human. His gaze gave it away, though, calculating and hungry as he looked her up and down, that look that usually meant he was deciding whether to fuck her, hit her, or both.

In the end he did neither, only said calmly, "The eyes of the mighty Caesar are upon you."

"Those aren't the ones I'm concerned about at the moment." She set her hand on the hilt of her combat knife, even though the Securitrons' watchful presence made it an empty threat. _Of course, it works both ways: he can't hurt me, either._

"You have nothing to fear from me," he said, continuing even as she opened her mouth to contradict him, "Caesar admires your accomplishments, and bestows upon you the exceptional gift of his Mark. The crimes you have perpetrated against the Legion are hereby forgiven." 

That threw her off completely; it was the last thing she'd expected him to say. _Why? What's his game this time?_ "All of them?" she asked, hunting for whatever it was he was trying to obfuscate.

"Caesar knows only of your dealings with the NCR, and I see no reason to trouble him with the rest. Gurges' fate suited his crime, and in any event, he was not much missed."

"Even so, that's ... not a gift idly given. What does he want from me?" she asked, not quite able to keep her voice from shaking. _He can't hurt me here. He can't hurt me here._

"Go to his camp at Fortification Hill, and you will understand. His Mark will guarantee your safe-conduct through our lands. Do not test his patience. Caesar will not extend this mercy a second time." He held the Mark out to her, and she drew in a sharp breath and took a step back, turning to bolt for the safety of the 38.

He caught her by the wrist, taking her hand off her knife. "Stay, Corva. We have more to discuss." It was a clear command, and despite the screaming in the back of her mind, her body obeyed automatically. "That Chairman. Did he touch you?"

"He wanted to, but no." The words were out of her mouth before she could even think of refusing to answer. Her lungs felt too small. The whole Strip felt too small.

"Any man with eyes would want you. But you're mine." His eyes locked on hers, and his voice took on a dangerous edge. "Have you forgotten that, my little bird? How many others have you soiled yourself with since you fled?"

"None," she replied, again without hesitation, and it was the truth. There'd been a few men over the years who'd intrigued her, but acting on those impulses would only have endangered them both. Celibacy was far safer.

Most people would have missed his two quick blinks before responding, but reading this unreadable man had once been Mel's foremost survival skill. He hadn't been expecting her to say that, or at least hadn't expected to believe her when she did. "So you've retained at least some of your virtue. Good."

She felt the familiar frisson of relief that she'd pleased him -- pathetic. Seven years of freedom, but a few minutes back in his presence had her submitting to him again. Mel marveled at her weakness, and hated herself for it.

He set his free hand on her hip to keep her from backing away again, leaned in close, buried his face in her hair, and inhaled deeply. "I've missed that, Corva," he murmured, closing her fingers around the Mark of Caesar as he brushed a kiss across her cheek to the corner of her mouth. "I look forward to a more ... satisfying reunion at the Fort."

And then he turned and left her shaking in the street.


	4. Chapter 4

Cass still hadn't seen any ugly suits, but she had definitely seen something suspicious: Someone else was loitering outside The Tops, watching the comings and goings with the same intense gaze a hungry radscorpion turns on a mole rat burrow. He wore a nondescript gambler suit and did a fairly good job of blending in; Cass was willing to bet she was the only one who'd given him a second look all day, and that only because she, too, was watching. 

Then Mel exited the casino, and he crossed the street to her immediately. Cass knew she couldn't just run outside and blow his ass away -- _the tin cans frown on that_ , -- but Mel had gone so fucking pale; she clearly knew this guy, and she was _not_ happy to see him. Her friend needed some damn backup. Cass started downstairs.

When she reached the street, they were still talking, but then he got way too far into Mel's personal space. Was he smelling her fucking hair? Holy fuck, that was some creepy shit. Then he handed her something, smiled, and walked away toward Vault 21 just as Cass reached Mel's side. Her friend was shaking. This was new, and disturbing: What the fuck could scare Mel?

She took Mel's arm gently and started steering her back to the 38. "So who the fuck was that guy?"

It took Mel a long time -- too long -- to answer. "That was a Legionary. The man who slaughtered Nipton, in fact, and -- there's more, but we can't talk about it here. Let's get off the Strip and get some very stiff drinks and I'll explain."

She didn't say much else until they were holed up in her room at the Wrangler with several bottles of booze, and it took two rum-and-Nukas before she finally spoke, small and resigned.

"That Legionary was also my husband."

Now _that_ was unexpected. Mel had always seemed like such a straight shooter. Cass gave her a long, hard stare. "Thought you were a widow."

"That would make things a hell of a lot easier." Mel wrung her hands and stared at the floor. "Okay, so when we met, I was telling the truth about being a tribal, just not about where we lived. Or, well, anything else between when I was a teenager and when I woke up in Goodsprings. I'm actually from southern Arizona. The Legion overran my tribe when I was seventeen. A week later and I'd have been killed with all the adults, but I hadn't done my journey yet -- that's our rite of passage -- so I became a slave with the rest of the kids. He bought me and told me I was his wife now. Spent four years with him before I escaped. Had a baby, too, but he got sick and died."

"Not in a fire. So your burn is --"

"-- what I did to cover up the Legion brand. The fire was a good cover story, though. Most people don't want to ask more questions after you tell them your family burned to death. This is good when you're an escaped slave trying not to get caught. And you'd better try very hard. The ones they catch ... they take days to die."

Cass gave a long, slow whistle. "Fuuuuuuuck. Sorry, Mel. Does Boone know?"

"No. You're the first person I have ever told about any of this. That's why I needed the drinks to help me get the words out." She poured another as she said it.

Cass did the same. "Thanks for trusting me. It must have been completely fucking godawful." Even that felt like a hell of an understatement.

"Worse for others. I got sort of lucky, if you can call it that. He only hit me if I mouthed off; he protected me from other Legionaries, and he even brought me books to read. Of course, he also did cruel and terrifying things and made sure I saw them, so I'd know what would happen to me if I didn't obey.

"I hated him, and I feared him, but I also ... respected him, I guess, in the same way I respect Bighorners -- knowing they can hurt me a great deal and being grateful they don't choose to unless provoked."

Cass had never heard of a Legionary treating a slave with that much ... care, and said so. "You think he might have loved you or something?"

Mel gave a bitter little laugh. "Sure. The same way Garrett loves the sexbot: Fucks it whenever he wants, and reprograms it if it pisses him off. The only difference is I was never loaned out. Well, that and there's no blood involved in reprogramming Fisto."

Cass winced and patted Mel's arm. "Well, that asshole's not going to 'reprogram' you anymore, so the hell with him. Whatever he told you to do back there, you do the exact opposite."

"I will. I'm not going anywhere near The Fort. The Legion can go fuck itself."

Cass could definitely drink to _that_.


	5. Chapter 5

Vulpes walked stiffly back to his room at Vault 21, resenting his damned profligate costume the entire way. Not only were the trousers uncomfortably tight against the nearly painful erection he was now sporting, they also did absolutely nothing to conceal it. He doubted anyone was looking, but he didn't like feeling so exposed.

The moment his door closed behind him, he freed himself from the disguise and got out the pair of Corva's panties he'd taken from her Novac motel room a few weeks ago, handling them carefully ever since to preserve her scent on them. That was unnecessary now, with the smell of her still fresh in his nostrils, so he ran the soft fabric along his length, enjoying the proximity of something that had touched her as intimately as he once had. It took only a few strokes before he spurted into the cloth, thinking of her soft hair against his skin.

He lay back on his bed, hands folded behind his head. He needed to consider what he'd learned from their meeting. The discipline the Legion had given her had slipped badly. She'd looked him in the eye, questioned him, tried to interrupt him, tried to walk away from him, reached for her weapon, even. So many rough edges to grind down ... Damned profligates.

There were signs not all was lost, though. When he'd asked her questions, she'd replied immediately -- and truthfully, he was sure; she'd tried to lie to him before and he knew her tells. She still showed a healthy fear of him, and when he'd commanded her to stay, she'd complied, hardly resisting the hand he'd put on her as insurance. So she could be salvaged.

He'd have to plan the next moves of his campaign well, though. Back in Flagstaff, Corva had accepted her station in life with a matter-of-factness that Vulpes generally appreciated; constant weeping would have been irritating. But he'd seen enough today to know that in order to return her to that beautifully yielding state, he'd need to break her down completely first.

Harming her friends would probably be the quickest route to retaming her; abusing other slaves had been an easy way to keep her in line when they lived together. She'd always been soft-hearted. Soft in other places, too. Vulpes noticed his cock stirring again; touching Corva today, however briefly, had been a potent aphrodisiac indeed. He took himself in hand once more, brushing his fingers idly along his shaft as he mulled over his options.

The mutant could be ruled out right away -- too strong, too attention-grabbing, too unpredictable. The ghoul was also a bad choice; Corva was friendly with him, but didn't seem to trust him entirely, and he needed someone who would mean more to her. Vulpes had a future operation in mind that would use the poorly-disguised Brotherhood girl, so he'd have to leave her intact. Likewise, the Followers doctor might be able to cure Caesar's headaches and should also be preserved. The drunkard who'd come to her side on the Strip was probably her closest friend, and he would surely enjoy punishing that one for contributing to Corva's corruption, but there was another whose crimes in that regard were far worse: Her pet sniper.

That profligate shit wanted Corva; Vulpes was sure of it. Even though he hadn't seen the man put his hands on her, or even say anything remotely impertinent, snipers thrived on their sight, and Vulpes had said it himself: _Any man with eyes would want you_. He had to be ogling her behind those sunglasses, and she was undoubtedly encouraging that: The leather armor she now wore fit too closely, displaying the lines of her body to a man who did not deserve to see them. She still didn't dare flirt overtly, but even the vaguest hint of his property becoming compromised was completely unacceptable. The sniper had to be the one to suffer for Corva's re-education.

Capturing him would be risky, but the potential payoff delighted Vulpes. He'd have to choose his words carefully to avoid actually promising her anything -- even to slaves, he preferred not to break his word, lying only by innuendo and omission. But if he let Corva believe she could bargain with her body for the profligate dog's life, Vulpes could probably have her begging to service him, even while the bastard looked on. _That_ thought had him fully hard in an instant. Yes, he'd let her plead for a while first, let her offer him a string of lewd acts he could hold her to later. Then he'd order her onto her knees and put her clever tongue to its best use. She was talented enough that it might take some willpower to deny himself the opportunity to come down her throat, but the lesson wouldn't be complete without fucking her properly.

For that, he'd sit in a chair and have her straddle him, forcing her to stay present by taking the active role. She would be tight anyway after going so long without a man, and her fear would make her even tighter around him. It would be like taking her virginity all over again: A second honeymoon. He sped up his strokes.

Oh, better still, he could turn her around to give the sniper a better view of the proceedings -- and her a view of the man's face. Let him look his fill at Corva while she fucked herself on her master's cock; let her see her shame reflected in his eyes. Meanwhile, he could use his hands to wring at least one climax from her, humiliating her further by demonstrating to all three of them his control over her body. He pictured her coming undone despite herself, hot cunt clenching on him, her back pressed against his bare chest, her loose hair trapped between them and rubbing against his nipples. The image was potent enough that he had to work to suppress a moan as he spilled himself again, on his fist this time.

If a few fleeting caresses had this effect on his stamina, he mused, actually having his woman again would likely give him the chance to finish by putting her on her hands and knees, winding a hank of her hair around his hand until her back arched perfectly, and fucking her ass. He stretched languidly, allowing himself a genuine smile at the idea of reasserting his claim on her body every way he could.

However long it took, once he was sated, he would kill the NCR dog anyway -- for practical reasons, certainly, but also to remind Corva of her powerlessness. He could imagine the ensuing conversation easily. _I thought we had a deal!_ she would cry, kneeling beside the sniper's headless body. He would lift her into his arms, handling her tenderly so his reply would seem even crueler by comparison: _Why would I bargain with you for something I already own?_ If she hadn't already broken, having the foolishness of her hope thrown in her face would surely do it.

Satisfied in more ways than one, Vulpes got up. It was time to move: The more he did for Caesar, the sooner he could have his little bird singing only for him again. He cleaned up and put his pack in order. He had work to do.


	6. Chapter 6

Mel would rather have remained hiding in her room at the Atomic Wrangler well into the next century, and not just because of her hangover, but she had to return to the Lucky 38 to deliver the Platinum Chip to Mr. House. She didn't like the computer-man at all; he held tribals in contempt and his hospitality came with strings, but her sense of duty compelled her to make his long-delayed delivery. She was, after all, a Courier. _Among other things_ , she thought, and shuddered at the memory of yesterday's encounter. The last thing she needed was _his_ voice in her head again. She curled her fingernails into the meat of her palm, using the slight pain to keep her thoughts from wandering. Mr. House was all too ready to write her off as yet another ignorant tribal; best not to prove him right.

But that was exactly how Mel ended up feeling, gaping at his newly upgraded robots in the 38's basement, understanding maybe one word in three as he explained what the Chip did. Still, she didn't need to know what "operating systems" or "software drivers" were to comprehend the demonstrations of missiles and grenades. The world outside the Ironwood Forest and the Bighorners' grazing trails again felt just as unfathomable, enormous, and terrifying as it had when the Legion had first arrived. All this, and he had _more_ orders for her? Well, he was paying her well, so she should at least hear him out.

"The next step will require you to infiltrate Caesar's camp at Fortification Hill." He kept talking, but the panicked roaring in her ears drowned him out. _No, no, not there, anywhere but there, of all the places in the Mojave, why there?_ She felt like she was falling down forever, past all the Securitrons underground and into the belly of the earth. Desperately Mel tried to wrench her focus back onto Mr. House's words.

He'd noticed her reaction. "If you find Caesar's Legion so frightening at this remove, imagine them rampaging across the Strip."

_They're starting already_ , she thought, but then his next words captured her full attention.

"We have a chance to see them destroyed, to see New Vegas become the harbinger of a new age. Now, is there a problem, Miss Shepard?"

Mel provided the answer he clearly expected, her practiced servility stealing over her unbidden as her mind reeled at the idea of being able to destroy the Legion. "No, sir. Will that be all?"

"Yes. Off with you. You'll receive further instructions when the time comes."

She backed away, eyes lowered, and nearly fell on the steps before she remembered she wouldn't be beaten for turning her back on him. Hell, with those monstrosities in the basement turned on the Legion, she might never be beaten again. And if that Securitron at The Tops was even half of what he claimed, she might not even have to be anyone's servant again.

Mel went back to the presidential suite to clean up and get back into her usual gear. She had work to do.


End file.
